Altered Realites
by Bone Dry
Summary: AU. What occurances of the past were enough to result in Brennan becoming a criminal in the present? And what if Booth was investigating both circumstances? B/B. T for safety. Sequel posted. Look for "Blind Rooster's Crow."
1. Crossed Paths

_**This version has been revised a little to clean up some spelling/word usage errors and to tie together a bunch of the chapters so that the readers are not forced to slog through so many of them to read.**_

**The first time I watched the Woman in Limbo and Russ made the comment "I guess the criminal nature runs in the family," it got me thinking: What if Brennan had decided to follow her family's example and had become a criminal? And what if Booth was the one investigating her?**

**And then, during a hiatus-slash-nasty-case-of-Writer's-Block, I started writing this. What we have here is a hodge-podge: B/B fluffy moments, the Keenan history, and later the plot gets to case sensitive stuff, as will be apparent by the end of this chapter.**

**Of course, I hold no financial clam to **_**Bones**_ **or any of its characters. But I have bought the DVDs and watch them repeatedly.**

**Tell me what you think...**

--

Temperance Brennan carefully cut the netting over the window and eased into the mansion. She had thwarted the security system and had passed through the estate unscathed. Not bad, considering she had only staked the place out for about a month.

Although the guy who owned the large house was rather paranoid—on top of the fact that he was filthy rich—and his security systems were complex, neither were any match for her patience and powers of observation. She had learned the codes, the schedules, and all the time-tables.

And so, on the rather chilly late autumn night, she was standing in the dining room of the grand estate and looking around. She carried a single large bag and was calculating what little she would take. This man—Jack Hodgins—had both taste and money, and his main home was filled with highly expensive and possibly unique items. It was a thief's paradise, but she knew she only had one chance to take the stuff and run. Once he realized he had been robbed, security was likely to be doubled as his paranoia escalated. And at that point, his potential merchandise would be of no further value.

But for the moment, he was on a date with Angela Montenegro. And his dates with her always seemed to last a long time. The estate's only other occupant—Zack Addy—never strayed from his own position on the other-side of the main house, so he didn't pose much of a threat.

She smiled as she recognized an extremely expensive antique and slipped it into her bag, anticipating another successful endeavor.

--

Special Agent Seeley Booth rubbed his temples and stared at the massive amount of paperwork on his desk, swearing almost inaudibly.

She had struck _again_. And now the Jeffersonian was on his butt for not catching her. Dr. Jack Hodgins was in a rage, demanding that the FBI explain why only one agent was assigned to the thief who had stolen eight extremely valuable artifacts from right under his nose.

This was her twelfth robbery. And after all of the heists, she had left behind only one thing: a few strands of hair. The FBI had not assigned the thefts a terribly high priority, due to the fact that the only thing that had been injured so far was a wine glass, which had been knocked over at some point during the robbery. So here he was, at twelve a.m., alone, with a headache, and seriously craving a slice of pie.

Hell, the only reason they knew it _was_ a she was because the hair had been ripped out at the roots and still contained a small amount of...He thought for a moment and couldn't recall what the lab techs had said they found. Only that it had something to do with DNA.

Having exhausted his capacity for thinking at that moment, he sighed and got up out of his chair to stretch. He didn't really want to see the files again until morning. He had been staring at them since morning anyway, so why should he have to spend the night going through them?

With that thought in mind, he headed off to the Royal Diner, thinking about pie and a large cup of coffee.

--

Brennan walked up to the Royal Diner's bar, craving a nice hot cup of tea. She was wondering why the place was so full at ten past midnight on a weekday, but wasn't sure she cared too much. She could be alone with her thoughts in a public arena. It wasn't that difficult.

Her fence was having a fairly difficult time moving the goods. Apparently Hodgins' stuff had been black-listed or something and were fairly noticeable on the current market. However, he had bought them, so they were his problem now, not hers. Although if she wanted to continue to do business with him she had better hope he would at least be able to find a buyer.

She sighed and flexed her shoulders, feeling tense and tired. She didn't really want any problems right now, she just wanted everything to take care of itself. But wishing never changed anything. She knew that and yet she was indulging herself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the man who took a seat right beside her. He had tried to gracefully slip onto the stool, but had failed, instead falling into Brennan's side. She steadied herself with a hand and turned to glare at him.

"Sorry," he said, loosening his tie and shifting in the seat. "Slipped."

She softened at the sight of him. His deep brown eyes were clouded over with exhaustion and frustration, and his suit was rumpled and in slight disarray. He looked as tired and irritated as she was, and she felt the anger drain away.

"Long day?" she asked, even though she never participated in small talk. Ever.

"Yeah," he said, flagging a waitress. "Slice of apple pie and a large coffee."

His moves were deliberate and calm, not rushed or slow. Casual.

The waitress glanced at Brennan pointedly.

"Chamomile tea," she said.

The waitress nodded and departed.

"Mistake," the man muttered.

She glanced at him with her eyebrows arched, "What?"

"Should've gotten the pie."

"Why?" she scoffed.

"It's the best."

"I don't like pie."

He shifted slightly, his interest apparently caught, "You don't like pie?"

"No," she wasn't sure why she was having this conversation with a complete stranger, "I don't like my fruit baked."

At that very moment, his pie was set in front of him, as well as two forks.

"Here you are," the waitress says, flashing them a smile, "I'll be out with your drinks in a moment."

The man's mood was starting to noticeably improve at the sight of the pie, and Brennan couldn't help but smile slightly at his innocence.

He carefully cut a small piece of the fruit concoction and slipped it into his mouth, letting out a small moan, "You're sure you don't like pie?" he asked, staring at her as his jaws sucked every morsel of flavor from his dessert.

"I'm sure," she replied. There was something about him—his presence seemed to ease some of the tension that had been stored in her muscles. His happiness with the simple act of eating was a far cry from the arguments she had been having with her fences.

Two steaming mugs were placed in front of them.

"Have a nice night you two," the waitress says, slipping off her apron.

The man gave her a friendly wave and smiled, glancing at Brennan.

"What?" she asked, seeing the mischief in his eyes.

"She thinks we're a couple."

"Wha—How do you know?"

"Intuition."

She snorted and shook her head.

There was silence for a moment as she nursed her tea and he worked his way through the pie.

"What's your name?"

Brennan glanced over at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What?"

"Your name?"

She paused for a moment, "Joy," she gave her other name. The original name that never seemed to fit except when she needed it for a cover.

"Booth," he held out a hand, which she shook.

"Is that your first name?" she asked.

"No. But no one calls me Seeley."

She laughed slightly.

"What?" he looked at her, insecurity creeping into his voice.

She bit her lip and looked back down at her tea, "Nothing."

He watched her for a few moments before exhaling and shaking his head, "You don't get out much, do you?"

Her clear gray eyes met his own, "Get out where?"

Booth smiled, "Answered my question."

She inadvertently returned his smile with a grin.

"Would you like to go out sometime?"

Her eyebrows raised, "With you?"

"No, with George Clooney."

"I don't know who that is," she responded.

His smile, a _charm_ smile, lit his face up even more, "Yes, Joy, with me."

She thought for a moment, arching an eyebrow, "Okay," she shook his hand once more, "I will go out with you, Seeley Booth."

--

Temperance Brennan—or now Joy Keenan—waited in a corner booth in Nolita's, an Italian joint she had taken to when she was craving a good red sauce. She had suggested the place, and Booth had agreed; she was glad he didn't feel the urge to control that decision. There were enough problems fighting her buyers for respect.

She carefully took a sip of red wine and skimmed through the people in front of her. Although she did not have a gift for reading people, she had learned to study physical characteristics in order to determine mood. The people in front of her represented what could only be called a complete hodge-podge. Some were tense, some were smiling and walked loosely, some had a shuffle to their gate, some just looked aimless, and some looked serious—there for the food, but not much else.

And then there was Booth, who showed up two minutes early and glanced around himself the moment he came in. Though he had a twinkle in his eye and a lightness to his step, he had the look of someone who didn't quite trust the entire world. It was a policeman sort of look. Not observational, but searching. As to what he was searching for, that she didn't know, nor did she really care. One cannot successfully dissect something that is not physical—at least that's what she believed.

When he noticed her, Booth walked forward, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Hello, Joy," he said and settled across from her.

"Hello," she said, her own lips twitching. That damn smile of his was contagious.

"Got you something," from behind his back he pulled out a small bouquet of daffodils.

Brennan stared at them for a moment, "They're my favorite," she said, "How did you know?"

He smiled and tapped his head with a finger, "Intuition."

She laughed and could feel her guard start to slip.

_He's very charming. And he knows it._

--

Booth watched Joy slowly twirl pasta with her fork until the noodles formed a neat little ball on the end of the utensil. She was dressed in a light brown jacket overlaying a deep purple shirt. Around her neck was a large silver necklace with lots of little rivets and symbols. When she moved, it caught the light and sent it shining into her eyes.

At first, the conversation with her was rather awkward. The woman sitting across from him had quite the impressive wall up. He could see her analyze every person that stepped in front of her piercing gaze, formulating thoughts and opinions behind that wall.

He had tried asking her things. He knew that people liked to talk about themselves, and had hoped that that would get her into a more talkative mood. But she hadn't really responded to the tactic. She didn't dodge personal questions, she just answered them. Nothing stemmed from it. After the third attempt at starting conversation, he realized that it wasn't that she wasn't interested, it was that she wasn't quite sure where to go. Her social skills were obviously non-existent.

Then she asked what he did for a living.

It was interesting the change that took place in her features when he answered. She tensed. It was so slight that it was almost imperceptible. But it was there for just a split second before she relaxed again. Her reaction was strange, but he decided to let it go when she started asking questions.

And he answered her. She listened, her eyes glittering softly in the low lighting, responding to what he said with what seemed to be a genuine interest. And that was when he realized he was talking to someone very similar to squint. She certainly had the grammar of a squint, yet...there was something different. She didn't have the self-absorbed air he associated with most scientists. Her questions were simple and curious; her responses intelligent and sometimes bordering on witty.

After a while, the conversation became more fluid and they were able to communicate without creating massive rifts in between words. She was laughing and he was grinning. This—he realized—was near instant chemistry. And with a little work, he imagined that the two of them would be playing off each other's words in no time at all.

Then it was over. She bid good-bye on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and walked away, the night air swallowing her form in moments.

Booth leaned against his black SUV and pondered many things. But foremost on his mind was the woman who had left him there.

Oh, yes. He was definitely thinking about Joy Keenan. Oh yes, indeed.

--

Temperance Brennan spun the gun in her hand playfully before turning it and pulling the trigger.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

She glanced at the spot on the dummy's chest where the three bullet holes were clustered before shrugging lightly and walking out. She owned a .22 Glock and she made sure she could use it on a regular basis. Although if she thought about it, she really didn't know that she'd ever be able to point it at someone and pull the trigger. It was a precaution—like so many others.

She walked outside into the cool night air. It had been over a month since that first date with Seeley Booth. Since then, they had gone dancing and had taken many long walks and talks together—sometimes merely to be together, and sometimes to talk. She was deliberately vague about her "work" so their conversations about the topic usually led to his own job. She had gathered that one of his current cases had gone cold and he couldn't seem to find a lead. She had offered a "wish I could help" look and a small smile, which he had responded to.

Brennan stopped outside of her current target: another large estate. The owner did not have the complicated security system that Hodgins had, but nonetheless she was wary. She didn't want to underestimate a target and get caught. But tonight seemed like the night, for the owner was away, the neighborhood was quiet, and there was very little moonlight to betray her presence. Almost ideal conditions...Perhaps this man would have something of value to take. It certainly looked like the kind of place that would contain priceless artifacts or antiques.

She broke into the house easily enough and looked around. Her earlier scopes had revealed that the room on her right contained a lot of display shelving. She decided to check there first and was rewarded with several very old-looking jewelry boxes and small paintings. They were originals and certainly _looked_ like they were worth money. She grabbed them and moved on, her thoughts drifting.

It was amazing how close she had gotten to Booth in just a little over a month. They spent a lot of time together. It had grown into a ritual of sorts. After a fight with a fence, she would go out to the Diner, and Booth would be there. Waiting. If he was troubled, then she would be there offering whatever comfort she had available.

As of late, something had gone wrong with his case. He never really talked about it. All she knew was that the leads were few and far between and that the newest piece of information had been hard on him. Something in his eyes had changed when he looked at her and it saddened her to see that.

Her breath caught in her throat as she was reaching for another valuable.

Someone else was in the house.

--

Booth watched as the woman he had grown such a great fondness for tensed, her hand in the process of grabbing a small statue.

He had known that it was her on their last date. Her demeanor had betrayed her for the criminal she was. Tense and wary. Searching and scoping. It was the behavior of either a criminal or a cop, and she was obviously not the former. He almost hadn't wanted to witness this moment. He had been hoping that his instincts were wrong and that on the night of her next burglary she would be with him.

But even now that he knew, he wasn't sure he wanted to stop it.

Her other hand slipped into her jacket as she turned to face him.

"You're a cop," she said simply. It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact.

"Yes," he replied.

The small amount of moonlight which seeped into the room reflected off her hair and eyes as she took a small step forward, "Booth?"

"Yeah," he could not hide the hurt in his voice.

She just stood there, saying nothing. No doubt she didn't know what to say.

He watched her for what seemed like hours before speaking once more, "Is your name really Joy?" he didn't know why he asked it. He just wanted to know. Needed to know.

She hesitated, "My name is Temperance Brennan."

He nodded. He wanted to know why she was here, and why she was doing this. Why she had come into his life and created such a relationship, only to have it come crashing down around their ears.

He didn't notice that she had moved toward the open window until she spoke, "Booth..." she paused, "I wonder...if we had met at another time, in a different place, do you think that we could've been friends?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get any words out, she was gone, and he was left standing there with his thoughts.

--

Temperance Brennan paced around her small rent-a-house in irritation. Considering she was on the other-side of the country, one would think she could stop thinking about her time in DC; nonetheless, she could not drag her mind away from that old home in the outskirts of town where Seeley Booth had caught her at her trade.

Cursing, she walked outside and into her vehicle, hoping a drive would sooth her nerves.

Winter in the foothills of Northern California. Snow was forecasted on the news. Luckily, there was no ice on the roads as of yet.

Her mind drifted as she navigated through sparse traffic.

Images drifted up.

Booth, eyes shining as he laughed at one of her sarcastic comments. A smile tugging at his lips as he complimented her necklace. One small sigh as he loosened his tie. His lips brushing hers with a delicacy she never could have imaged...

She blocked out the thoughts as she parked outside of a small little restaurant called "The Willow." Famous for its steaks, she had found that they also made a mean potato. That was what she wanted now. A nice starchy potato, a salad, and a glass of red wine.

She chose a seat near the window. The restaurant was packed to the brim, and the small table had just been vacated moments before.

A man around her age walked over and wiped a rag over the surface of the table, then provided her with a menu. She accepted it, watching him walk back into the crowd. Despite all the noise and the friendliness of the atmosphere, she couldn't help but feel alone.

After only a little over a month, she shouldn't miss him as much as she did. But her mind kept drifting back.

The tired-looking waiter placed a glass in front of her, and she thanked him reflexively, reaching for the glass and craving the taste as it slid down her throat. One glass. That's all she would allow herself.

She sighed as she stared out the window, watching as the first flakes of snow lazily drifted down to kiss the earth.

--

Seeley Booth flipped through the pages in front of him, not particularly enjoying what he was doing.

Because she had provided him with her name, he was able to track down a history on the woman who had fled from the house only two weeks before.

The woman who was still occupying his thoughts as if she'd never left.

The woman he hoped would walk through the doors of the Diner and tell him it was all a dream.

He blocked these thoughts and skimmed through the file again, reviewing the details he was already familiar with.

Temperance Brennan was born to one Christine and Mathew Brennan in 1976. She had one brother—Russ Brennan—who was now, according to the history that had been compiled—in California with the rest of the family. But the wrinkle appeared in 1978, where the identities of all four of them had suddenly appeared.

A little digging had procured some interesting details: One—Temperance was not the only criminal in the family. Although Russ had a criminal record on his second identity, both Christine and Mathew—under the names of Ruth and Max Keenan—had been arrested for a string of bank robberies in the mid-to-late 1970s. After getting out of jail, the two had had children, moved to Chicago, and changed names. Everything since had been clean-nosed. By all appearances, the old crooks had retired. In 2002, the entire family—excluding Temperance—had moved west to the foothills of California.

He had also been interested to discover that Temperance had given her real name to him first, as opposed to her alias. When he'd asked for her real name, she had used the name of the second identity—the one that was clean. Booth wondered on the significance of that.

Her only arrest record was present on Joy Keenan. Temperance Brennan, however, had not received so much as a parking ticket in the course of her life. After much pondering, he had decided to call her by her second name.

Sighing heavily, he closed the files and leaned back into his couch. Outside, he could see snowflakes slowly pitter down, consuming the world in white.

Despite himself, he couldn't help but wonder what Temperance was looking at tonight.

--

Temperance Brennan sat back on the brick hearth, a fire roaring only about a foot from her back, slowly twirling the prod she had been using to adjust the logs.

Her mother had thrown her out of the kitchen so that the two would not be vying for space on the counter. Max Keenan, Brennan's father, knew not to interfere with cooking duty, so he had merely watched as mother and daughter duked it out for one of the chopping boards.

After several minutes, Brennan had conceded and retreated to the living room to adjust the fire.

Mesmerized by the reflecting flames on the prod, she jumped when a new object entered her field of vision.

"Relax, Tempe," Max held the wine glass away at a safe distance.

She reached for the glass, "Thanks."

"Welcome, honey."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the smell of frying onions and garlic wafting in.

"Is something bothering you?"

"Hmm?" She looked up at him.

"You've been acting a little strange since you got back from DC," her father's eyes were filled with concern, "Did something happen?"

"No..." her voice trailed off as she took a sip of wine. Yes, something had happened, but she was slowly getting past it. It was really the guilt that was holding on; that, and, well...something else she couldn't identify.

His eyes continued to search hers.

"I'm fine, Dad. Really," she rose and gave him a quick hug, "You worry too much."

"How could I not?" he replied as she resumed her seat on the bricks.

She smiled at him.

If anything could be said about her father, it was that he oozed charm. This man could make a...She paused for a moment and tried to think of the right metaphor. Her mind latched onto the word "Vulcan." Yes. Vulcan. That sounded right.

Her father could make a Vulcan smile.

She smiled inadvertently at her use of the term, even if it was only in her head.

"Glad to see you're cheering up," Max noted.

She blushed slightly, but couldn't help but smile again. Shaking her head, she changed the subject, "Is Russ going to be arriving soon?"

"Yeah," he nodded slightly, "He called a few hours ago to say he'd be here in time for dinner."

Brennan glanced out the window to see that snow was still drifting from the skies, and it didn't look like it was about to waver, "In this weather?"

"I advised him to come earlier, but he said his car had had some sort of mechanical problem he'd needed to fix."

She nodded. That always seemed to happen around family get-togethers—although it had been her car last time.

A loud sizzling sound broke the memories of her debate with the car-repairmen, and both Max and Brennan glanced away as if they could see through the wall to the stove—both thinking about dinner.

Max walked out, and his daughter could hear bits and pieces of cooed words following his entrance into the kitchen. The two had been married for decades, but none of the love had bled out. Nothing but their appearances had changed in recent years.

She smiled at the slight knock on the door and moved to let her brother in, her spirits already lifting at the thought of spending an evening with her family. It was nice to do this again after so many months apart.

--

Seeley Booth stepped into his hotel room and tiredly dropped his suitcases onto the floor, rolling the tightness out of his shoulders before bending down to pick up a briefcase.

Placing it on the bed, he flipped open the lid and pulled out the contents, laying them all out on a nearby table. Even though he really just wanted to sleep for a while, something about the files and papers was bothering him.

He picked up one page and held it up, reading the names he had started to become familiar with.

Wilcox, Holt, Keenan, Dewett, Parker, Genzlinger, Peterson, Brown, Gallagher...

Cook, Cabot, Columbus, Fremont, Stuart, Long, Balboa, Drake, Lewis, Clark, Magellan...

It just went on and on.

Only three names did not have a (D) following it: Columbus, Fremont, and Cabot. Although he couldn't help but wonder about the accuracy of the sheet, he was hoping the information was accurate.

Besides, it was a list of FBI code names. How hard could it be to make a spreadsheet?

He set the page down and glanced through several others.

Theft reports.

Descriptions.

Arrest records.

Death certificates.

Pictures.

Histories.

Notes.

The guy at the reception desk had taken several hours to find what Booth had been asking for. The reason had become clear when the man handed over the papers.

Hell, it took one briefcase alone just to carry the stuff.

He sighed and turned his attention to the other papers.

Two dead FBI agents. Their papers, once gathered in a separate section, were mingling with those of the strong-arm crew. He had pulled everything he could think of.

Something was wrong with this picture. He just couldn't decipher it.

The itch had been driving him insane until he had finally decided to take some vacation time to pursue this—off the books.

Of course, the fact that _she_ was here had nothing to do with it.

Nothing to do with it at all.

Feeling a headache pulsing through his temples, he closed the file he was staring at and got up, switching off the light as he went.

Tomorrow he would start to figure out what was going on, but tonight he needed to sleep.

--

Brennan shut the door of her old Mazda outside of a small Italian restaurant in the heart of town and stepped inside the building. The cold of the winter was banished immediately by the warmth of the indoors, and she could smell tomato sauce and pasta cooking somewhere out of sight.

Feeling carefree and blissful, she took a seat by the reception area and awaited someone to lead her to a table, thoughts of homemade ravioli tangoing with her hunger. When the familiar figure finally walked over to her, she hopped up and they hugged like old friends.

"John," she said.

"Temperance," John Scaletta replied, "Here for your usual?"

"Of course," she smiled at him.

She followed him back to a small table near the window, remembering other times she had visited this place. Dinners with her family; lunches with Russ; a meal or two on her own. Never would she pass up a chance to eat here when on a visit. No matter how many times she had the food, greeted the owners, swapped tales with any of the other staff, it was never enough. The place was as close to a second home as she had.

And even though John had been running the place for thirty-two years, none of his cheeriness had died. The man was just a pleasure to be around.

Small memory bits of dinners with her father where she had spent half the time struggling not to pound the table in mirth as Max and John traded quips came to mind and she smiled at the thought. Yes, her father was a character, but pair him with another man like him and one ended up in the tricky situation of choking on fine Italian food as the two men traded stories they all found hilarious.

"I'm going to get your order moving," John says with a grin tickling his lips, "And then I'm coming back and you're going to tell me all about what you've been up to recently."

Brennan nodded and waved him away with a laugh. Of course he would want to hear some stories. Now she'd just have to think of a few to tell.

She inhaled deeply and could smell garlic and onions cooking. Yet more fantastic smells to add to this place. Her olfactory delights were interrupted by a portly women who greeted her in much the same fashion as John had.

"Tempe!" her Polish roots bled through her words, "How are you?"

"Lena!" Brennan said as she was given another hug, "Oh, I'm fine. How are you?"

"Good, good," she was beaming, her brown eyes twinkling, "Everything is fantastic!"

"I'm glad to hear it."

Brennan resumed her seat as Lena Scaletta turned the chair from a nearby table and sat across from her. Immediately the two were chatting about shared memories and soon enough John joined them, although he occasionally had to pop out to help out with the dinner crowd.

It felt like old times again, and everything that had happened in DC started to melt away, being replaced by a great feeling of contentment and peace.

--

Booth walked out of his hotel room deep in thought. The files in the room were starting to tell him stories, and he didn't like where the plot was going.

In 1971, Mathew Gallagher appeared on the criminal scene with a small band of armed robbers working through the banks of Ohio, Kentucky, Iowa, West Virginia, and Tennessee. By the mid 1970s, a large-scale task force had been compiled to deal with the crew. Secret Service, state police, ATF, FBI—all collaborating to catch what had, by then, become a syndicate of thieves with a real tendency toward violence.

At the time of the crew's arrival on the bank-robbing scene, Max and Ruth Keenan had already been working the same turf for years. Their specialty was safety-deposit boxes. No guns. In fact, their history had been clean of bloodshed until they had joined Gallagher's crew, where things had gone down-hill. But interestingly, the two had never been charged of doing anything more harsh than slugging a few clerks.

In 1974, one of the crew—who remained unnamed in the file—ratted the whole organization out. Although most remained in prison for many years, Max and Ruth did not serve such an extended sentence due to their less violent methods and two year-old son.

In 1976, Joy Keenan/Temperance Brennan was born.

The wrinkle occurred in 1978 when, officially, Max and Ruth Keenan disappeared to be replaced by Mathew and Christine Brennan. In the same year, one Garret Delaney and Augustus Harper were murdered—two FBI agents.

An identity change and two murders. Booth was starting to wonder if there was some kind of connection.

The agent dug his hands into his pockets and continued to walk down the street, wondering if there was a decent restaurant nearby where he could rest and collect his thoughts. His stomach was starting to remind him that it had been more than six hours since lunch.

He walked by the corner of the building he was near and paused, noticing chairs and tables through a large window. His mind jumped to two very important conclusions: One, the lights were on, meaning the place was open, and two, the place must serve food if it was set up for people to sit and put things on tables.

Booth took a step backward, pivoted, and made for the door...

...And found himself face-to-face with Temperance Brennan.


	2. Snowflakes

They just stood like that for a few moments, eye-to-eye, the only thing separating them a plate-glass window.

Booth's neurons were firing furiously, debating about the next course of action.

_Arrest her!_

_But I came here to talk to her._

_She's a thief!_

_Well, she didn't kill anyone. That's more than can be said for Delaney and Harper—who are both dead._

_Your personal relationship is messing with your views!_

_I don't care._

_Arrest her!_

_Talk to her!_

_It's unethical!_

_She could help me._

_She could shoot you._

_She's not going to shoot me._

_You didn't see the criminal thing coming either._

His secondary brain cells paused for a moment before thinking up another response, _Yeah. But she still didn't shoot me._

A mental eye-roll and his logical side went mute.

The synapses passed, and his mind cleared.

Brennan was standing opposite him, her hands still tucked inside of her tan trench coat. A turquoise necklace was framed by a swirl of auburn hair, the silver chain catching some of the light and throwing it into her eyes. She was still frozen in the position she had been in since seeing him, but her eyes had changed. The shock had gone away, and he could see defiance and irritation beginning to burn through those cool gray irises. But behind those two overpowering emotions he glimpsed something else. It almost looked like sadness.

That third emotion bled through her actions as she slowly lifted a hand from her pocket and reached for the door.

In only moments she was beside him once more, for the first time in several weeks, and Booth knew he wouldn't do anything. If she were to run, he wouldn't chase. No matter how illogical, he wouldn't be the one to pull out the gun.

She looked at him, her jaw clenched ever so slightly, and opened her mouth to speak, "What are you going to do with me?"

He met her eyes and paused, "Nothing, Temperance. I won't do a thing."

--

Brennan stared into the dark depths of Booth's eyes, slightly taken aback by the use of her name. Her real name. The one that seemed to define who she was. She could read the pain in his features, as she was sure he could read it in her own, but wasn't sure what to say.

So instead they just started walking along the street—shoulder-to-shoulder—a stream of gray bursting from their mouths whenever they took a breath. Snow began to catch in their hair as they walked, and the nearby streetlights lit the white of the ground, creating the effect of wandering through an old winter painting. A horse, with a carriage trailing behind, trotted by as if to complete the image, no doubt on his way to a warm stall somewhere far away.

After long minutes of silence, Brennan began studying the man walking beside her. His back was hunched to the cold, and a red scarf mingled tastefully with his charcoal-gray coat. Both his hair and shoulders were powdered white from the snow, and slowly the original color was starting to disappear under the mass.

She stepped on the edge of large pile of snow and her foot sank in, throwing her off balance. Booth caught her as she fell, but quickly let her go when she regained her footing.

"Thanks," she said, shivering from where her hands had come in contact with the cold.

"It's no problem," Booth replied as he looked her over; after a moment he took off his scarf and draped it around her neck. It was warm from his body heat, and her involuntary shivering ceased.

"Thanks," she said again, for she did not know what else to say.

A smile lit his lips for a moment as he continued to study her, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. After a beat, he spoke, "What happened to you, Temperance?"

She looked up at him and met his eyes, deciding to just tell him the truth, "I don't know." She paused and shook her head, "I just don't know."

Booth remained mute for a moment, as if considering his actions, before stepping forward and engulfing her in an embrace.

--

Brennan sorted through the files on Booth's hotel desk, thinking to herself.

Some of this information was familiar, but most of it was not. When she was only a little over twenty, her parents had revealed their history to her, as well as her real name. It had been quite a lot to digest at the time, but now it was just a part of life.

What was interesting was how scant little they had actually said. The files before her contained a lot of information on the strong-arm crew—a subject that neither Max nor Ruth talked of much. Some of the names were familiar from overheard conversations between the ex-cons, but other than that most of these people were new.

She flipped back to the FBI code name list, and saw once again that Booth had highlighted her parents' names. Columbus and Fremont. Max and Ruth. It was strange—like gazing into a parallel universe only thirty-seven years in the past.

She sat back and kneaded her temples. What bothered her was the amount of deaths. Almost everyone in the crew was dead or presumed dead. Only her parents and another man named Simon Holt a.k.a. 'Cabot' did not have a small 'D' by their names.

She had glanced through some of the other files on the desk. Death certificates for many of the members were present as while as a few ME reports. She had immediately flipped through them, reading everything her eyes came in contact with and absorbing every piece she understood. Now the cause of death readings were bouncing around her head: drug overdoses, shootings, one poisoning, and a few with severe head trauma—which the medical examiner had attributed to something similar in shape to a tire iron.

Sighing, she shifted gears in her mind, pondering the man who had brought her to the hotel in the first place.

His behavior was a mystery to her. He hadn't arrested her and had yet to show any inclination of doing so. It seemed as if he had forgone policy in favor of her—a concept that was alien to her. And he had given her access to quite a few of the Bureau's official files. When she asked why, he had said this investigation was off the books.

And that he needed her help.

Continuing to massage her aching head, she pondered why she had complied with Booth's wish. Because he hadn't arrested her? That was one definite possibility. She was interested in knowing about her family's history? That may have been a thought originally, but now she wasn't so sure.

Because she enjoyed his company?

With a loud exhale, she pushed out that thought and reached for a notepad, deciding to work out a time-line. The files were not organized and she needed to have something that would make everything linear enough to understand. She wasn't good at the psychology of the murders, but she could handle the facts.

Clicking a pen, she started to write, effectively distracting her mind from any further thought.

--

Booth watched as Brennan took notes, her hair fanning out to her left as she wrote with head slightly cocked, mouth slightly ajar, eyebrows crimped in thought. Her eyes betrayed a feeling of pure concentration, although every once and while she would stop to rub her neck or temples—obviously battling a headache behind those clear irises of hers.

She was completely oblivious to his watching of her, or at least she gave no indication that she knew. He realized that she was even more like a squint than he had originally thought. She was completely absorbed with puzzles, and the files in front of her presented quite a complicated one. Just as she would tackle locks and security codes to break into houses, she was using lists and words to sort through her thoughts.

What he also found interesting was that she had agreed to come here and look through the files. He had figured it would be a battle to get her to cooperate. He didn't catch an intimidation vibe from her; rather, she just seemed interested.

And something had changed between them as they had stood together in the snow in each other's arms. He couldn't identify what it was. It was just out of the reach of his subconscious. In any case, he couldn't bear the thought of being the one to cage up such an independent and fascinating individual.

"Booth?" her voice called him back.

"Yes?" his eyes snapped up.

"Why are you watching me?" her own eyes were still glued to the papers in front of her and her pen had not paused for a moment.

He smiled sheepishly, "You're hard not to watch."

"Why is that?"

He paused, slightly taken aback by the natural response to his own statement. God only knew how this woman would take a compliment. Instead of trying to sort out a response, he got up from the hotel bed and stepped toward her, clearing his throat, "So what have you found, Brennan?"

She looked up at him, "Why do you assume I found something?"

"You just look like you found something."

"How can you tell?" she looked curious.

"Intuition," he returned his old line, tapping his forehead.

She smiled at him and shook her head.

Booth was struck by how easily they had slipped back into their old relationship. It was as if while everything may have changed factually, nothing really had on the grounds of feelings. He liked that.

"So what did you find?"

She exhaled and pointed down at the notepad, which was shockingly linear. The words were all neatly arranged, bullets present for each member of the crew describing his or her histories and under them a time-line—all in her mixed cursive and print handwriting.

It looked very different from his massive scrawling word webs which connected people based on motives and actions.

Upon closer inspection he realized that there were small side-notes next to each name and initials to the people they were connected with. Under the time-line and stuffed into the margins were questions which had apparently occurred to her as she had written. Some were crossed out and had small arrows to their corresponding answers, but many had remained on the page.

But two of her questions caught his attention: _Coincidence that both Delaney and Harper were working the case at TOD?_

_M/R changed to M/C in 1978. D/H murder in 1978. Connection?_

He looked up at Brennan and began wondering the same thing.

--

Brennan walked into her small house and draped her coat over the coat-rack near the door, sighing as some of the snow followed them in.

"You didn't have to come with me, you know," she said to Booth, scooting some of the slush back outside.

"How could I be sure you weren't going to run?"

She looked up at him, "I wouldn't do that."

"You did once before."

"Not this time. I'm in now, Booth." It felt weird that she was being so frank with him.

He made eye-contact, "I'm glad you are, Temperance."

Again he used her name. Part of her wanted to know why such a moral person was treating her so nicely, but part of her was glad for it even without a reason. She didn't want to run. She was tired of running. For all she enjoyed her game of wits, just as much of her wanted normalcy. This man seemed to be the answer to her wishes.

With the ghost of a smile on her lips, she lead her newfound company to the couch in her living room.

He settled at her gesture and she looked at him for a moment before offering a hot chocolate—craving it herself. He accepted and she left him to work in the kitchen, insisting that he stay put.

Awkwardness bled through her actions as she set the mug before him and he simply looked at it for a moment.

Scenes from crime books flashed through her mind and she realized her potential mistake, "I'm sorry. I didn't do anything to it. I swear it. I—"

He interrupted her rambling with a slight smile and a raised hand, "Relax. It just looks hot. I trust you."

"You do?" she said the first thing that popped into her mind. _Why?_

He chuckled slightly, "You don't seem the type to drug people."

She blushed and covered it by taking a sip from the mug. The liquid definitely would have scalded her tongue had she attempted to swallow anymore of it. Even so, it left a very hot feeling inside her mouth.

"So..." he leaned back a little and pointed at the rows of bookshelves covering most of the walls in the room. "What's with all the bone books?"

She blinked, the segue catching her off guard, "What?"

He read off some of the titles, _"The Anatomy and Biology of the Human Skeleton, Photographic Regional Atlas of Bone Disease, Developmental Juvenile Osteology—_Not exactly normal reading material."

She paused, "I don't know. I've been asked before but it would seem that at some point in my life I developed a fascination with the skeletal system and just never had any real chance to pursue it. I suppose it could have something to do with the murder mysteries I used to read when I was younger and always enjoyed whenever the author would take the time to explain how they came across a finding. Or maybe it was the segue into anthropology from my interest in evolution which lead to my discovery of the field..." her voice drifted off as she realized she was rambling again.

"How much have you read anyway?" he was watching her with a bemused expression on his face.

"Oh, I've read everything I can get my hands on. The books can be expensive, but I've found that the libraries can import them when I need their information, but after awhile I realized I needed the reference material."

"For what?"

She paused again, feeling slightly crest-fallen, "I don't know. I never found an appropriate application."

He patted her arm, though not unsympathetically, "I'm sorry, Bones."

Brennan looked over at him and met his eyes, "What did you just call me?"

--

Angela Montenegro walked hand-in-hand with Jack Hodgins through the small gardens of his estate, simply enjoying the night for what it was. It had occurred to her twice to grab her easel and paint on the patio, but the draw of her entomologist had been stronger.

Unfortunately, her entomologist was in one of his conspiratorial moods.

"Okay, so through one of my buddies I found that the art piece that was stolen from me was somewhere in an art gallery three states away about two weeks ago, but the piece was bought only a few days later. Now, if I can just—"

"Hodgins," Angela said and stopped in front of him, "It's been way over a month. Just let it go."

"Ange, it was a priceless artifact."

"And as an artist, I can appreciate that. But, Jack, there are times to let things go. Let someone else enjoy it."

"But it was _stolen_ from me."

"I know, sweetie," she said and rubbed his arm.

They resumed walking.

"Where is Booth anyway?"

She shrugged, "I think he went on vacation."

"Why didn't he stay to work the case?"

"Hodgins, you know as well as I do that he took the case as a personal favor. He works homicides. That hunk of a man doesn't know how to track thieves." She kept her opinions about a cold case to herself.

"Ange," he gave her a slight look.

She laughed, "No harm in looking. And besides," she smiled seductively, "There's only one man for me."

"Oh, please say you're talking about me."

She smiled again and let her lips elaborate on her point.

--

The wheels of Brennan's old Mazda steadily worked through the light dusting of snow on the road leading to Booth's hotel.

"What's the next course of action?" she asked as they rocked to a stop in the parking lot, his hotel located only a few dozen yards away.

"I figured we could try to talk to your parents," Booth said.

She raised a brow, "I'm pretty sure that wouldn't be received too well."

"But I'm in your company."

She shook her head, "They don't know you."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Will you talk to them?"

Brennan looked over at him. "Yes, I will inquire."

"That doesn't sound too promising, Bones."

She pursed her lips, "I told you not to call me that."

"And I told you not to steal my fries. That doesn't mean you stopped."

She scowled, "That hardly compares with a nickname."

"Can't we just agree that there are some things that never change?"

Instead of dignifying that with a response, she rolled her eyes. It was amazing how easy this was, talking with him. He was right. Some things really never changed. Certainly their time apart had only changed their external views, but emotionally it was becoming more and more obvious that their "careers" weren't having much bearing on their relationship.

He smiled, "So we'll talk later, Bones?"

Resisting the impulse to remind him about the nickname, she nodded, "Dinner tonight?"

"If you know a place."

"I know several."

"So I'll see you then, Bones." He grinned at her and climbed out of the car, to do whatever it was that he would do in this situation.

Smiling at his rather audacious personality, she turned the car over again and drove off to congeal back into the main road and its slight traffic.

After working well past midnight the night before, he had fallen asleep on her couch. Being the kindly person that she was, Brennan had endeavored not to wake him and had instead draped a nice thick quilt over him. A few minutes later, she had also retired to bed and slept many an hour away, only to wake up to the smell and sound of frying eggs. Oddly enough, it felt almost normal that he was there in her house, cooking breakfast for them as if they had always been.

With a slight snort, Brennan took note of the fact that she was so shocked by the normalcy of the relationship. Maybe it was because everything was out in the open with Booth. No vague notions about importing and exporting a variety of goods, no quick plots to think of an excuse why she couldn't meet up with him the next night. Although she still wasn't entirely convinced he wouldn't pull the cuffs out at some point in time, part of her didn't feel threatened by his presence. And he had said that he trusted her.

Certainly if there was a minimum of distrust, that could be the root cause of the shared feeling of contentment.

Feeling no further need to dissect the relationship, she concentrated her attention on weaving through the traffic of I80 to get to her appointed destination.

Twenty minutes later, she was passing through the wooden doors of her parents' home, immediately banishing the chill of the outside air and replacing it with warmth. She was struck with the smell of bacon, and her long exiled predator inside nudged her for an opening. However, her control prevailed, and she walked through the kitchen without even a glance at the stove.

Temperance indeed.

With a smile at her own pun, she stepped into the living room where—only two nights before—she had been sitting on the hearth, completely unaware that her trip to DC would be more than just a memory.

"Hey, honey," Max said. "How was dinner at Scaletta's?"

"How's John?" Ruth asked.

Brennan stepped forward and settled on the hearth again, then regaled them in the night's events—excluding her run-in with Booth. As she talked, her mind constructed a logical way for her to come up with a reason for asking about the Keenan history. Her parents generally avoided the topic, and the dropping of a federal agent's name wouldn't change their minds.

However, she discovered that there was not a legitimate reason for her to ask without the case files, so when her short saga was completed, she reached into her purse and pulled out the envelopes.

"What's this?" her mother asked as she placed the file onto the coffee table.

"Something I discovered." She looked up and met Ruth's eyes. "Mom, what really happened in 1971 through 1978?"

With a weary look, both of her parents leaned back into the couch.

"It's a long story, honey."

She settled across from them, her legs hanging over the edge of the table, "Start from the beginning."

With only a slight sigh from her father, and only a little more prodding, the story unfolded.

And it was one of the strangest she'd ever heard.


	3. The Artist and the Entomologist

Max sighed, "In 1971 there was a task force created to deal with the issue of the strong-arm crew we were apart of. But they went corrupt, started asking for bribes to keep their mouths shut. And it was a fair exchange—the crew provided a cut in exchange for the cops purposefully looking the other way until long after the members were in the clear. This happened for several years, and none of us were complaining."

"But everything changed in 1978," Ruth cut in.

He looked at her and nodded, "The group we were apart of was a band of miscreants and both them and the cops had developed some kind of issue with Marvin Beckett."

Brennan nodded. She knew the name from the case files.

"In any case, a massive stack of cash was planned to frame him as taking a political bribe. At that time, we knew we had to leave," her mother said.

"Problem was, there wasn't much of a way out. A few days after we had made the decision, Gus Harper was murdered."

Brennan said nothing.

Max continued, "This wouldn't have held much significance to us if it wasn't for the fact that we had overheard a conversation between Balboa and Magellan." That translated as Kent Genzlinger and Mathew Gallagher—two of the top men in the group, "Apparently," he lowered his voice, "Harper had been bothered by the Beckett set-up. His intention was to rat out the crew to the rest of the FBI in hopes of stopping it."

"Two days later, he turns up dead," Ruth said chillingly even though she visibly looked upset.

"There were a lot of arguments and yelling on the day we decided to leave. We just walked out and never returned..." his voice trailed off.

Unceremoniously, Brennan dropped another file in front of him—the report on the robbery of Ohio First Savings and Loan, merely days after Harper was killed.

With a questioning look, Ruth reached down and took it. After flipping through it, she stiffened and her eyes shot to meet her husband's.

Wordlessly, the old con got up and left the room, leaving silence in his wake. When he returned, he handed Brennan a notebook.

She flipped through it curiously, and with a start she realized she was looking at a journal. Gus Harper's journal. "Why?" she asked simply.

Max sighed again and leaned back into his couch, "There were major changes in the crew around that time, and the cops were starting to get edgy. Things looked as if they were about to break and there was no doubt that they would want to cover up Harper's death."

"But wasn't Beckett convicted?"

Ruth looked at her, "Even the FBI would have checked all possible avenues before arresting someone so prominent. The bank deposit box's contents would invariably be sought out and destroyed by both the crew and the cops."

"Why didn't you just give it to them back then?"

"If we had, they surely would've gone after us. As it was, we had already changed identities and states. Exposing ourselves would've meant doing it again."

Brennan shook her head, comprehending but not really understanding. "What happened to Delaney then?"

Another exchanged look.

"Garret Delaney was higher up on the food chain. Worked directly with some of the higher ups in the operation on the cops' side."

"He also did a lot of work with Vince McVicar," Ruth added hesitantly.

Both of them paused, another one of their silent moments.

Ruth continued, "He was the official hit man for the crew—not that anyone outside of our circle could prove it. But he was as famous with his 'tire iron' as Hugh Kennedy was for his icepick."

Brennan didn't ask whom the latter was.

"Rumors at the time were that Delaney wasn't quite satisfied with his position and that one of the higher ups had put out a hit on him."

"In any case, he was found with a bullet in his brain three weeks after we left."

She met each of their eyes, "Do you know who killed him?"

Ruth glanced at Max again before opening her mouth to speak, "Robert Kirby."

--

Seeley Booth listened as Temperance Brennan quickly and quietly relayed her information to him, her eyes roving the restaurant every few moments. Something had her jumpy, and the reason wasn't clear until she reached the end of her recounting.

"Robert Kirby?" he repeated in an equally hushed tone. "_Deputy Director of the FBI _Robert Kirby?" Even to him his voice sounded slightly squeaky.

She nodded.

"How sure were they of this?"

"Pretty sure," she said grimly, "And it's the only scenario that makes sense."

He stared at her incredulously.

In ten minutes, this woman had turned everything upside down and inside out. She had told him that a large group of federal agents _and _local cops were involved in a conspiracy to not only keep the criminals they were pursuing out, but frame a political activist who had been in jail for thirty years. Her addition of the belief that the now head-honcho of the FBI had not only participated, but ordered a hit on a fellow agent was almost unfathomable.

And she had _provided evidence_ to support these insane claims.

"What do we do?" he asked, for he was at a loss.

"Shouldn't we confront the FBI? Give them the evidence?"

"No, Bones," he shook his head and continued before she could protest, "First, I would have to come up with the origin of this evidence, and if I point to you, both of us will be arrested immediately. As it is, I'm working this case off the books. And second, I will definitely get fired if I bring this stuff up."

"So what do we do?" she repeated his own question.

With a sigh, he realized, deep down in his heart of hearts, what he had to do. With a shaky breath, he reached down and touched his phone.

"I have to call Caroline." He said it like it was the end of the world and in a way, it very well could be.

--

"What you're saying is that we have two dead FBI agents and a falsely imprisoned man?" Caroline Julian asked with her eyes-a-glowin' as she paced around the J Edgar Hoover building's meeting room.

"Yes," Booth said meekly.

He had flown in that morning with his newly-made partner after making the call to the fiery AUSA, hoping that she would be able to help.

"This does not look good, _cheri,_" she said before finally settling across from him and staring at the journal he had provided her with. "Where did you even get this bombshell?"

He ran through his possible excuses at warp speed. No way was he going to rat out Brennan now, but what to say? He settled on evasive, "Do you really want to know?"

She took the hint, knowing that she really wouldn't want to know the source, only that it was there. She had worked with him more than enough times to know that. "And now you're also telling me that the _Deputy Director of the FBI_ is responsible for the deaths of at least one of these agents?"

"Yes."

"And you suspect he's responsible for the death of Delaney as well?"

"Yes."

"_Cheri, _this does not look good at all."

"I know."

But Caroline was one for justice, even for her demeanor and status, "I'll see what I can do, but we may need more evidence than this journal."

"Like what?"

She just stared at him.

"I have to bring the squints in on this?"

Her silence was answer enough.

With a sigh, he watched her leave to begin her own battle as he reached for his phone to start yet another.

"Dr. Saroyan," a voice answered crisply from the other side of the call.

"Cam, it's Booth. I need a favor."

Her voice sounded wary when it responded, "What, Booth?"

He explained the situation and waited for her final judgment. When it came he clicked off the phone and got up to stretch, his mind already formulating excuses for the judge.

As he departed from the room, all he could think was one thing: How could one person cause so much trouble in only a few short days?

Little did he know that it was only the beginning.

--

Dr. Camille Saroyan of the Jeffersonian Institution's Medico-Legal Lab sighed heavily as security called in to say that Seeley Booth, a consultant, and two bodies were coming into the lab. _Her_ lab. Again.

This was just like the agent—handing her a highly inflammatory case with almost no notice. Goodman would have a fit when he found out. But luckily this was her department, not his.

Realizing her hostility level was rising—no doubt due to her late nights the past few days—she took a few deep breaths before stepping out of her autopsy room/office and meeting those at the entrance, stopping to wave the men with the bodies through first.

She stopped at the corner of the main lab entrance, studying those before her.

Seeley Booth, in his usual black suit and 'Cocky' belt buckle, stood with hands crossed, arguing quietly with his companion. His tie was long and red, matching the color of that insufferable belt buckle, but loosened only a little. The edge of his empty gun holster was peaking through the suit, and Cam figured he had probably been forced to abandon it when stepping into the high-security lab. Although he looked tired, he also looked good. Very good. Though he always did.

The pathologist refocused her attention onto the man's companion, conveniently blocking out other thoughts that threatened to infect her poise.

The woman stood in a relaxed sort of way, not straight and stiff but not slouched either. Her hands were positioned on her hips and her jaw muscles were shifting back and forth as she bunched and un-bunched them, no doubt irritated with the agent. Even from where she stood, Cam could see the fire in her eyes—due to anger and defiance. The strong lines of her face created rather deep shadows from the way the light was hitting her, revealing a very strong jaw and prominent neck muscles.

The two of them together appeared to be the very picture of professionalism—he in his suit and she in her white blouse and black blazer.

That is until one realized that the topic of their heated debate was, in fact, over dinner arrangements.

With a smile, Cam stepped forward.

"Camille," Booth said as way of greeting.

She cocked her head, "Nice to see you, Seeley."

He smiled, "Don't call me Seeley."

"Don't call me Camille."

It was their usual. A must whenever they saw each other after time apart.

Cam turned to the woman who was now watching them with a bemused expression on her face.

"Camille Saroyan," she introduced herself without the formal title.

"Temperance Brennan."

They shook, and their handshakes were equally strong.

Cam didn't bother to ask what her connection to Delaney and Harper was. Booth wouldn't bring anyone into this place if they weren't qualified...even if he was obviously seeing the person in question.

"So, how's this going to work?" the pathologist addressed them both. "Are you guys going to stay here while I perform the autopsy or what?"

Booth glanced at Brennan and they both appeared to be silently exchanging information.

With the slightest hint of a cringe, Booth looked back at Cam, "We'll watch."

She smiled, "Okay, then."

--

Both Temperance Brennan and Camille Saroyan smiled as Booth backed up in horror at the open body before him. "Ugh," he groaned.

"Feeling a little queasy there, Booth?" Cam asked wickedly.

Brennan laughed, although her own attention was riveted to the body. She was not a skittish person by nature, and there was not much in this world that could get her to react visibly. She'd been in enough dark and dank places to know what awful things smelled like, and she had seen enough of the underside of life to know what awful things looked like.

Although the chemicals in both agents' bodies had prevented complete decomp, they still both looked and smelled of something rancid. Brennan thanked her strong stomach for not reacting to that terrible scent as it had washed over the room.

"Just...continue," Booth said weakly.

With a nod, Cam complied and silence settled over the room like a cloak—only interrupted by the pathologist's words into a Dictaphone.

Brennan watched the proceedings quietly, occasionally shifting her footing or moving her hands, determined not to miss a moment. _This_ was the stuff she liked; the things she had read about and thought about idly when she was tired; the things she had sketched out and taken notes on for nothing but her own personal enjoyment. It felt jarringly odd to suddenly be thrust into it first-hand, let alone because of something that had happened almost thirty years ago.

She glanced up from the open ribcage and physically had to stop herself from jumping.

Jack Hodgins was standing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes absorbing the scene before him as his hands played with a file tab. A long blue lab coat sloped down almost to his knees, and the clothing underneath appeared to be a simple brown shirt with khaki pants. A pink rubber-band was around his left wrist. A smile was lightly playing his lips as he regarded Booth.

Brennan hoped her eyes had revealed nothing. She had robbed this man only two months ago, and she was not about to get caught for it after all this time.

Despite what she was feeling, Hodgins had not noticed and he was regarding her curiously—probably wondering why she was there. Or who she was. Or that she was a criminal

"Dr. Hodgins," Cam said in a surprised tone, interrupting Brennan's deluded perceptions as they flowed through her mind, "Here about the Roberts case?"

He nodded and stepped forward, handing her the file, "Flies and puparial casings put time of death about three months ago."

She took it, "Thank you."

He nodded again and turned to Brennan, "And who is this?" He walked around the table to get to her.

"Temperance Brennan." She held out a hand to receive another firm handshake.

"Jack Hodgins. Pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well."

They smiled at each other and Brennan relaxed, realizing he didn't suspect her.

"Booth," Hodgins nodded in the agent's direction, albeit in a slightly patronizing tone.

"Hodgins," the agent replied.

"You up for seeing those maggots today?"

"Not on your life."

He smiled and glanced at Brennan with a playful expression in his eyes, "Would you?"

"What?" Booth said as Brennan heard herself say, "Sure."

The smile broadened. "Really? We have a taker?"

"Congratulations, Hodgins," Cam said dryly from her position over the open chest, "Your first one yet."

"I know." He was still smiling at Brennan, his eyes now shining.

She couldn't resist grinning at his comical joy. "So where are they?" she asked.

"This way," he gestured her out and she followed as Booth looked on helplessly.

"So you're an entomologist?" she asked as they navigated forward through many scientists in lab coats, an office with several easels directly across from them.

"Yeah; I handle all the bugs, slime, crud, and compost."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Oh, yeah," his grin was very broad. Obviously she really was one of the only people to have accepted his offer, and Brennan felt a twinge of sympathy, for she was familiar with the feeling of being interested in a topic that no one else was.

He led her past the large office and past several smaller ones, cubicles on the left which contained scientists working at their quarters. When they reached his own office, they took a sharp right and ended up standing in the middle of a room with a bunch of tables, tubs, jars, chemicals, and various lab equipment. Several large machines were in one corner, and there were about three computers on three different counter-tops.

Hodgins reached up to a nearby cupboard and took down a glass case filled with small yellow squirmy things. These were most definitely maggots, and she knew enough from her reading to follow the entomologist as he started rambling about their life cycles, habits, and the current species which was in his hand—_Calliphoridae _or the blow fly.

When he had finished his speech, he put the maggots away; although that action may have been prompted by the woman who walked into the room.

She was tall, almost at Brennan's height, and was dressed in the same lab coat that everyone else around here was. Around her neck was a long and thin brown necklace with a few turquoise beads, which accented the white she was wearing underneath the coat. A clipboard rested in her hands and grin lit her face when she saw Brennan.

"Oh, Hodgins," she reprimanded lightly, "You didn't drag another one into this did you?" Her brown eyes met the gray of Brennan's, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I should've been watching him."

"No, it's okay. I wanted to come."

"Really?" she waggled an eyebrow at Hodgins, "I hope I haven't been replaced."

"Replaced by what?" Brennan replied, confused.

A slight laugh escaped from her lips, "Oh, nothing, sweetie. What's your name?"

"Temperance Brennan."

"Angela Montenegro," she held out a hand and they shook. "I do facial reconstructions."

"I see," once again, Brennan found herself intrigued.

Angela continued to smile and addressed the bug man, "Have you shown your friend around?"

"No. Not yet."

"Wanna tour, sweetie?" her eyes went back to meet Brennan's.

"Sure," she said, overwhelmed by the artist's cheeriness.

"I'll see you later," Hodgins said and waved.

She waved back and sent her best smile with him as she left the office shoulder-to-shoulder with Angela.

"So what brings you to the Jeffersonian, Brennan?" the artist inquired.

She quickly recalled her cover, "I'm consulting for the Harper and Delaney cases."

"Really? I figured you had come from another lab on a consultation. So you're working with the hunky FBI agent?"

"You mean Booth?"

"Of course."

"Yes."

"Fun," she playfully poked her side with an elbow, "Doing anything outside of work?"

Brennan hesitated, and Angela pounced with a gasp. "Oh, sweetie!"

She laughed and already found herself liking this person.

"You've got to tell me things. That FBI boy doesn't come around here nearly as often as he should."

Brennan smiled and shook her head at the artist's bubbly attitude, which was starting to infect her own mood.

--

Booth groaned. Brennan had abandoned him for the squints, and he was forced to watch an autopsy on his own. And if he tried to leave, Cam would surely never let it go. He would be hearing about it until the end of time.

He realized with slight consternation that Brennan was no longer with Hodgins and was now chatting amicably with Angela Montenegro—a woman who was fully capable of entertaining entire audiences, let alone a moderately socially-challenged criminal whom he was currently dating. A blush colored his face as he realized that _he_ could be the very topic of their conversation.

As if reading his mind, Cam spoke, "So, what's going on between you two?"

He blinked and swallowed, "Uh...She's...We're working together."

"Uh-huh," she said with a smile slowly spreading across her face as her tongs deftly maneuvered around—doing only God-knew-what because he sure as hell wasn't looking.

"Yeah."

She scoffed, "Oh come on, Booth. We've spent enough time together that I can read your signs. So...How did you meet?"

More quick thinking, "A case."

"She does consultation work a lot?"

"No," he shook his head and grabbed a hold of his voice, knowing that he needed to sound confident or there would be trouble. "She knows quite a bit about the circumstances surrounding the Harper and Delaney cases, so I called her in as a favor."

"She's a cop?"

"No," he answered quickly. He jumped onto the career he had chosen for her, "She's a PI."

"Really?"

"Um-hm."

"Well good for you."

He paused, "Yeah..." his voice trailed off, "Good for me."

--

"So do you live here, Brennan?" Angela asked from her couch.

Brennan sat directly across, "No...I sort of drift from place to place; never really stay anywhere for long."

"Restless?" she asked knowingly.

"Yeah," she nodded and wondered if that really could be part of the reason.

"I was like that for a while. But eventually I just settled here."

"Why?"

She shrugged, "It felt right. You ever get that feeling where something seems as if it should be wrong, but it never really was?"

"Yes," she nodded, and thought about Booth, "Yes, I have."

Angela studied her for a moment, "You ever think about settling?"

"Yeah..." her voice trailed off, "I have." And it was the truth; but she had lived a life of lies for so long that she wasn't even really sure what the truth was anymore.

A young man interrupted her thoughts; his hair was cropped short, and a tie hung loosely from his collar—partially obscured by a blue lab coat which proclaimed "Z. Addy" with small white letters. He looked preoccupied and his attention was still rooted to the object which he held in his hand. An object that immediately riveted Brennan's own attention.

It was a _skull._

A _human_ skull.

Animal bones were easy enough to get through warehouses and even garage sales, but real human bones were exceptionally difficult to come by, and often they were expensive and of low quality.

And here he was, carrying it around a if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Hey, Zack," Angela said casually, for she was obviously used to this sort of thing.

"Hey, Angela," he replied, "Need you to do a reconstruction."

"No problem."

Brennan watched as they filled out the necessary paperwork, traded a quick farewell, and parted—leaving the skull with the artist.

Angela turned to Brennan, "Don't mind him; he's usually too focused to notice the major things like 'it's midnight' or 'I need a haircut.' He's wasn't ignoring you."

"Oh," that hadn't even occurred to Brennan, so focused had she been on the bones, "It's okay."

She smiled, "Wanna see something cool?"

Brennan's interest was piqued. "Yes."

Her smile broadened, and she got up and walked behind the station where her computers were, approaching a massive box-like machine. She grabbed something and clicked, and light started to seep from the two open ends of the box like some sort of strange ventilation system. In moments an image had materialized inside of it and she watched, transfixed, as a yellow bird began flapping around within its confines, occasionally opening its beak in a silent chirp.

Angela set the skull on her desk near a blank sketch pad.

"What is it?" Brennan asked and stepped forward, warily approaching the machine as if afraid the bird would suddenly charge after her.

"The Angelator. It took a lot of work, but this baby has been with me for the past three years," Angela said proudly, "I was working on a little animation before you came."

"It's amazing," she stared at the bird, and its movements kept her eyes in a continuous motion.

"Thanks," the artist paused, "Jeez, it's almost six already."

"It is?" Brennan asked distractedly.

"Yeah. We were all going to go out to dinner tonight because we haven't done that in a while." She paused again, "Would you want to come?"

Brennan eyes snapped over to her, "What?"

"Well, we could invite Agent Booth too. You just seem to be enjoying yourself so much, I figured you might want to come."

"Really? I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, don't worry, sweetie. Jack already loves you. And besides, we all have to eat."

"It's no trouble?"

"None at all," she slipped off her lab coat and swapped it for her real one, "Let's go. May need to warn Cam that it's getting late."

Brennan nodded and followed her out, already looking forward to spending more time with the lab workers.

--

"Yeah," Cam said, exhaling as she stared at a file, "It looks like your source was correct. These bullet holes don't even come close to what was reported in the file."

"How do you know?" Booth asked, feeling immensely better now that the autopsy was over. "You don't even have the actual rounds."

"Don't need 'em. The two holes in the chest were made by something much larger than a .38," she paused, "And one look at Delaney tells me that he wasn't killed with a .38 slug either."

"Then what was he killed with?"

She looked at him, "A rifle."

Angela Montenegro chose that moment to enter the room, "Hey, Cam, it's almost six o'clock."

"Oh, right," the pathologist ripped off her gloves and threw them in a biohazard container, suddenly looking harried. "You wanna rally the others while I get ready?"

She nodded, "And I invited Brennan along to."

Cam smiled, "Hey, it'll be nice to have an extra party member."

The party member in question smiled back.

Angela turned her brown eyes mischievously to Booth's, "You wanna come to, Booth?"

The agent barely turned his own eyes from Brennan, "Yeah...Sure." He paused, "What?"

She grinned, "It'll be nice to have you, Seeley."

"What?" he asked desperately as she walked out, having completely failed to comprehend her words. "What did I just agree to?"

Brennan smiled at him, "We're having dinner with them."

He stared at her in complete disbelief. She had rubbed elbows with the squints and had—by all appearances—been indoctrinated. It was unfathomable. It had taken over a year just to get Hodgins to _look_ at him, let alone be accepting of his presence.

'And yet,' he thought to himself as she took a deep inhale and glanced around herself, 'I've never seen her more at home.'

He watched her follow Angela out, and could almost see a blue lab coat painted over her clothes as she ducked out of sight.

--

"So..." Angela said, taking a sip of wine, "How long have you two been dating?"

Brennan glanced at Booth, who was blushing, mentally calculating how long they had actually spent together, "Over two months."

"Ah, newbies," Hodgins said with a chuckle, kissing Angela on the cheek.

"Oh, please don't start that here," Cam begged, "We're trying to eat."

The artist smiled sweetly as the entomologist leaned over and whispered something into her ear. She giggled.

Cam sighed.

"This is one of the those times when I have no idea what's going on," Zack Addy said, his fork still poised over his macaroni.

The pathologist patted his shoulder, "You're the lucky one, Zack."

"Why? What'd I do?"

She smiled, "Nothing."

He still looked confused, but pursued it no farther.

Brennan munched on her salad thoughtfully, watching as Angela, Hodgins, and Cam roared into laughter at some sort of comment about someone named Jim from the research department—Zack still hopelessly trying to catch up with their trains of thought. She really liked these people.

It was a foreign concept to her, this almost familial relationship between friends. She had only had a blood family her whole life—her meaningful friendships having lasted but a short time. In her line of work, betrayals could cost everything, so she kept to herself most of the time.

But the cheeriness of the group brought a painful sense of longing slamming into being. She flinched at a sudden pressure on her shoulder, and turned to see Booth staring at her with concern.

"You okay, sweetie?" came a voice to her right. Angela's.

"Yeah," she flashed a smile at Booth before looking at the artist, "I'm okay."

Angela studied her for a moment "You sure?"

"Yes," Brennan ventured a smile.

"Good," she smiled back, "Because no friend of mine should feel lonely any day of the week."

Brennan blinked. _Friend?_

Angela lifted a hand and ordered a fresh bottle of wine and a couple of beers for the table, which earned a cheer from Hodgins and Cam and a grin from Zack, Brennan, and Booth.

When the drinks arrived, the mood shifted. Case files were pulled and spread out over a table which had long been cleared of food. Quietly Brennan and Booth gave a quick summary of the incidents in the 1970s, excluding the source and Brennan's connection to the crew.

"So how was Delaney killed?" Angela asked, looking at Cam.

"Well, despite the coroner's report, he was killed by two rifle slugs to the chest—same as Harper."

"I hate to say it, but my peeps, I smell conspiracy," Hodgins interjected.

Nods were exchanged.

The pathologist looked at Brennan, "You said that Robert Kirby was a marine sniper?"

She nodded and took a sip of her wine.

"But didn't you say that there was another crew member who was still alive?" Zack asked. "Cabot?"

"Yeah."

"He disappeared," Booth said, "We can't find him."

"What's going to happen to Marvin Beckett?" Hodgins asked.

"He'll be released. Caroline's going to move for a dismissal first thing tomorrow."

"She's the prosecutor, right?" Cam.

"Yeah. AUSA."

"Of course." The pathologist paused and turned back to Brennan, "Did your sources know where Cabot is?"

She shrugged, "I didn't know to ask, but I'll be sure to do so later."

"And I have a few recovered pellets I'd like you to look at Hodgins," she said, looking at him, "I'll have them sent to your office."

He nodded, "I'll work on them first thing tomorrow."

"Zack," she turned her attention to the young doctor, "you'll get a few ribs."

He nodded.

"You'll call when you find something?" Booth asked.

Cam nodded, "The moment we have something, we'll call."

A wave of nods went around the table a feeling of finality washed over them. Purses and wallets were pulled out to finally take care of their bill, and drinks were nourished until emptiness.

They parted at the door, and Brennan and Booth watched as the scientists disappeared into the night, their laughter echoing into the quiet night.

"You guys were really hitting it off, huh?" Booth said as the two of them started the short walk to their car, "You're becoming a regular squint, Bones."

She rolled her eyes, for he was always calling her that. "Yes. We really were..." Her voice trailed off, though she hadn't meant it to.

He stopped her, "But you seemed a little withdrawn. You feeling alright?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

"No, Booth. Really, I'm alright." She backed up her statement with a soft kiss, "You don't have to worry."

He grinned at her, though she could still see slight concern in his eyes, "Okay, Bones."

She laughed, "You and that name."

"It's endearing, Bones. Gotta learn to love it."

"You think so?"

"Yeah."

"I'll try," she nuzzled into his side and they began walking again with his arm around her shoulders.

"Glad to hear it, Bones."

She closed her eyes involuntarily, savoring the contact. Her heel ruined the moment—slipping on a piece of ice on the sidewalk.

She lost her footing and fell against a nearby car. Booth leaned over and hauled her up, smiling at her, "You know, that's the second time I've had to do that."

She glared at him. "Very funny."

"Eh, I don't mind, Bones."

She put her hands on her hips, "That doesn't surprise me."

He smiled.

"And if I didn't know better, then maybe I would suspect you were the one tripping me up."

His grin broadened, but any answer he may have given was cut off by the sound of several gunshots and the squeal of burning rubber as a car sped away into the night.


	4. Old Hitmen

Brennan clicked off of her cell and sighed, staring at the notes she had compiled. Files were everywhere, and papers were coating every square inch of the glass table in the Jeffersonian's lounge. Her clock read 3:20.

Leaning back, she rubbed her eyes, mentally replaying what had happened on the sidewalk only six hours before.

Booth diving behind the car she had fallen against, bringing her with him.

Glass shattering. Screams from down the street.

A dull pain in her wrist.

Booth, eyes wide with fear as sirens sounded.

Police. Questioning. Notes. Someone looking at her wrist for damage.

Her own voice insisting that she was fine.

Booth with his phone out, making several calls.

The scientists from the Jeffersonian asking for all the evidence, despite the protests from the cops.

Cam offering shelter at the lab; Angela, Hodgins, and Zack agreeing.

She accepting the proposal.

Hodgins' car. The Jeffersonian's steps. Files. Papers. Notes. A call to her father. More notes.

"You feeling okay, sweetie?" Angela's voice suddenly materialized directly across from her.

She jumped, her eyes flying open.

The artist looked disheveled. Hair back, make-up worn away, a tired look in her eyes.

Brennan managed the slightest of smiles. It had been years since anyone other than her immediate family had asked for the status of her mental or physical health, and now she was being virtually accosted by the question. It felt nice. "Yes. I'm fine, Angela."

Angela settled across from her and looked at all the papers that had accumulated in the past few hours, "Did you find anything useful?"

"Yeah..." her voice trailed off as she mentally summed up all that she had found, "Simon Holt, aka 'Cabot,' joined the crew around 1972 and was McVicar's right-hand man."

"McVicar?"

"Hitman for the crew."

She nodded.

"Even though it was never technically proven that McVicar performed most of the hits, everyone still knew it. Cabot would usually be the one to dig up the information on the victims, but occasionally he would perform one or two hits himself. He disappeared in 1978."

"The same year Harper and Delaney were murdered?"

"Mm." She nodded.

"What else did you find?"

Brennan glanced down at her notes, "He was trained in several different kinds of weaponry. Was one of the more violent of the crew members."

Angela picked up the list of FBI code names, "The list says he's still alive."

"Yeah. I know," she said, absently picking at the graze hole on her jacket's sleeve.

"Did your source know where to find him?"

"No, and he recommended I don't look."

"Will you?"

She looked up, "Yeah. I will."

"But you'll be careful, right?"

"Of course."

Angela paused, "Are you going to get any sleep tonight?"

"Booth told me not to leave here."

"I could grab some blankets from my office. There's a couch down there."

"But wouldn't I be bothering you?"

"No, sweetie. It would bother me more to leave you up here in your condition."

She paused, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

The artist blinked, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," she blinked heavily. "I...just don't know."

"Come on, sweetie," Angela gently pulled on her arm, eyes filled with concern, "Get some rest."

She allowed herself to be led away, destined to get five hours of sleep.

-----

Booth paced around his office, running purely on coffee and his musings. It was amazing how many problems had cropped up in only a few short days.

Kirby had disappeared. The evidence from the journal and the inconsistent coroner's report were more than enough to justify his arrest, but when the cops had shown up, he was in the wind. Him, his sniper training, and his gun.

Eight shots someone had fired at Brennan before driving away. She had thankfully escaped with only a graze, but the incident was more than enough to warrant concern. He had ordered her to stay at the Jeffersonian until they could figure out the identity of the shooter, but he didn't have much confidence that she would listen. He had no doubt that if she found something, she would go after it. Whether or not she would inform him about the lead was a dubious question. And he couldn't keep constant watch over her.

He sighed and plopped into his office chair.

Angela had called to inform him that Brennan was asleep and filled him on Cabot's stats. The fact that Cabot also had sniper training worried him. Ballistics had not begun work on the rounds yet, but he had no doubts that they were from a sniper rifle. And if Brennan potentially had _two_ people with sniper training after her, then an extra set of eyes would certainly be necessary.

Caroline had called to say that Beckett was to be released by morning and that she was going to bed. Her final words to him before hanging up had been one word: "Duck."

It was good advice.

Tapping his fingers against his desk, Booth decided to look through the things that had been confiscated from Kirby's office. He was thankful that the case had gone to him as opposed to someone higher up. Even though Eternal Affairs would want in eventually, for now he had free reign.

He grabbed a small booklet contained names and phone numbers. A phone dump was in the works, but he didn't have it yet. Likely the phone company wouldn't get around to it for hours.

After several minutes of flipping he paused, not even believing his luck.

In the margins of the section marked "H" one name was written.

Cabot.

Suddenly he was in a froth to get those phone records.

----

Booth walked rapidly toward Angela's office, several pieces of paper stacked in his arms. The lab was in mid-morning swing, and to his surprise the artist's space had blinds drawn and lights off.

Not stopping to consider this, he opened the door.

Brennan was resting quietly on the couch almost directly across from him. A large Native American themed blanket had been draped over her, and just under the thief's chin he could see a few files poking through the long cloth's cover. One of her hands was wrapped protectively around the pages, and he could see a pen poking out of her hairline.

He stood there for a moment, watching her chest slowly expand and contract as she breathed. She looked peaceful, and he realized that she rarely looked this way. No guarded eyes, pursed lips, or pinched eyebrows. Calm. He remembered that Angela had called some time around 4:00 to report to him that she was asleep. Which meant that as of now, she had gotten only about five hours of sleep. He was seriously tempted to just stand there and watch, but he knew he couldn't do that.

As he stepped toward her, he saw the small tear on her sleeve and a wave of guilt washed over him. He should have been more careful; those bullets had just barely missed her. Booth sighed and settled in the space between the couch and a free chair, his hand hesitantly reaching forward to wake her up.

But he paused half-way to her shoulder. Somehow he didn't think that if she woke up to find him touching her that it would be well-received. In fact, it would probably piss her off. He quickly retracted his hand and rethought things, all the while staring at her as if in the hope that she would solve the dilemma herself. But she didn't. Brennan hadn't shifted an inch and did not look as if she would any time soon.

Booth slowly rose to his feet before quietly plopping into the seat across from her, his hands fidgeting with the files in his hands.

It was a very unfortunate situation for him. On the one hand, if he went to investigate the lead on his own, she would probably explode. On the other, if he shook her awake and she was still tense from the shooting, he could end up with a broken wrist. Without even realizing it, his teeth had begun worrying his thumbnail and he dropped his hand with a slap.

He flinched as Brennan's breathing hitched and her eyelids twitched. With a slight groan, her hand slipped from under the blanket and reached up to rub her eyes. Hair cascaded from her shoulders as she slowly sat up and the pen and files dropped to the floor.

"Shit," she hissed, reaching down to retrieve them, freezing as she spotted his pants. "Booth?" her eyes met his, and she smoothed her hair behind her ears. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled at her as she leaned back into the couch, hugging the files to her chest as her free hand rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Got a lead."

"Really?" the gray of her irises retracted as her pupils grew wide. "What is it?"

"Phone records from Robert Kirby and his date book."

She crossed to the chair next to him and he handed her the papers.

"How were you able to get these? He's high up in the FBI food chain, correct?"

"Well, he was until the evidence you gave for the Harper case surfaced."

"Is he in custody?" She skimmed down the list in her hands.

"No. He's in the wind."

She briefly met his eyes, "For how long?"

"Well, time-stamp says around the time Cam faxed the autopsy results to us."

"And you said he has training as a sniper?"

He knew where she was going, "There's no proof he's the one who took a shot at you."

"It wasn't _a_ shot. It was eight. Logic would suggest that the shooter is only one of two people, both of whom are attached to this case. Kirby disappeared just hours before the shooting _and_ he has sniper training. I thought you FBI boys didn't believe in coincidences." She paused and took a breath, "Did forensics recover the bullets that were meant for me?"

"Ballistics is running tests on 'em right now."

"They'll call when they get the results?"

"Yes."

Her eyes slid back down to the list and she paused. "Is this a landline number?"

"Mm-hmm."

She looked up at him, "We have Cabot's address?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And it's here in DC?"

"Oh, yeah."

She got up, "Let's go."

He grinned and followed suit, "Right after you, Bones."

She smiled slightly at him as they both headed out the door.

----

"Do you think it's going to rain?" Brennan asked, staring up at the dark clouds in the sky.

Booth glanced in the direction she was looking, "Yeah. Probably."

She shifted in her seat and turned to him, "So how does this work? Do we have back-up or something?"

"No."

She blinked, "But isn't there always back-up?"

He shook his head, "No. This is just a social call; that's all."

She raised her eyebrows, "A social call?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Then why are we just sitting in the car outside his house?"

"Because I'm not sure I want you to go in."

"I thought you said this was a social call."

"I did."

"So what's the problem?"

It was his turn to shift, "Well, it's like you said. There were only two people who could've fired that gun. And one of them is in that house." He pointed at the building in question.

"Yeah, and the other one is in the wind. You forgot the second part."

He sighed, "That's not the point, Bones."

"Then what is the point?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment or two of silence, he finally shrugged and said, "There is no point, Bones. No point at all."

She was about to ask why he had said there was a point when there wasn't one, but he opened his car door before she could get the words out.

"Yeah," he announced, "I think it's going to rain."

She smiled at his pathetic subject change, but took the hint. He wasn't pursuing the topic any further. Her car door opened with a click and within moments they were heading up the short concrete walkway to the house.

The squat building stood in the middle of a postage-stamp lawn which had long since been overrun by clover and dandelions. The house itself was plain and white, the windows blocked from the inside by yellow curtains. Or perhaps they had once been white but over the years had changed colors. It was unclear from Brennan's angle.

Booth approached the door and pressed the buzzer for the doorbell.

"You know, it just occurred to me."

She looked at him.

"This guy was in the strong-arm crew in the 70s. He's in his sixties."

"And what of it?"

"How many old men killers have you heard of?"

"Booth," she waited until he looked at her, "You know how he got old?"

He smiled, "Aging?"

She didn't, "By being smart and fast. He's an old criminal and survived after the rest of the crew was killed—including the cops who were working the case. You can't underestimate him."

"Him?" he jabbed a thumb at the door.

She sighed, "Ever hear of Hugh Kennedy?"

"No."

"Well, I'll introduce you to him when we get back."

"No, that's okay, Bones. I believe you." He reached over and tapped the buzzer again.

She bit the inside of her cheek and adjusted her footing.

After a few moments of waiting, Booth turned to her, "Think I should announce my title?"

She raised her eyebrows, "Why are you asking me?"

"'Cause your a crook, he's a crook. See the connection?"

"Not at all."

He sighed, "Bones, you would know how this guy thinks."

Her hands shifted to her hips, "How do you know?"

Booth seemed to be trying to backtrack, obviously realizing his mistake, "Well...What would you do in this situation?"

She leveled a gaze at him, "I don't think I'm comfortable saying."

"I'm not going to use it against you, Bones," he said, sounding wounded. "You know that."

She sighed and moved her hands again, this time across her chest, "I would run."

"You?" his eyebrows rose, "Somehow I never would've thought of that."

"Why?" She could feel her own eyebrows crimp.

"You seem more like the..." he raised his hands into mock fists and punched the air.

His assessment was true enough. She had beaten up quite a few of her unruly business partners and, on the rare occasion that she was contracted, a few clients. But she was intelligent enough to know that that kind of behavior toward law enforcement would be the makings of a scrape. "It would be illogical to attack a police officer, let alone an FBI agent."

Brennan held up a hand when he opened his mouth to respond.

"He sees us," she said quietly.

"What?" He turned and looked at the door.

She spotted his hand moving into his jacket and she shook her head, lightly grabbing his arm, "No."

He sighed, "FBI, Simon Holt. We'd like to ask you a few questions." He pounded on the door. "FBI."

The door opened the slightest fraction of an inch, "Badge?" a husky voice asked.

Booth showed it to him.

After a long moment of silence, Cabot opened the door enough to reveal his face. "What is it that you want?"

He had a silver beard shaved close enough to his chin so that it didn't stick out. Even in his sixties he had hair, which looked as if it had grown to a certain point before giving up. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue, indicating he hadn't lost much of his watchfulness. He held himself with good posture, but his arms and legs were loose. His nose was thin and long.

Yeah. It wouldn't be smart to write this guy off.

Booth apparently had deduced the same thing, "Mr. Holt, we're conducting an investigation on the disappearance of Robert Kirby. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Brennan raised her eyebrows, wondering why he had suddenly jumped that on the old con.

Contrary to her own reaction, Holt hadn't so much as blinked, "No."

"You sure about that?"

"I know nothing of his disappearance."

"We found your name in his phone records."

"I never said we didn't talk."

Booth just gave him a stony stare.

"Kirby and I were reliving old times."

"On what prompt?"

"I'm afraid that's none of your concern, Agent Booth. Now, unless you're going to arrest me, I suggest you leave." His eyes shifted to meet Brennan's for a fraction of a second before flicking back, "As I'm sure you're aware, I know my rights."

The door shut.

"He was friendly," Booth commented dryly, turning to leave.

"Yeah," Brennan said absently. "He was."

"Are you even listening to me, Bones?"

"Hmm? Yeah..." her voice trailed off as she followed him back.

"What's a matter with you, Bones?"

She looked at him, "Nothing." He just felt very familiar to her. "Nothing at all."

----

"Hey," said the woman behind the counter upon spotting Brennan and Booth as the entered the Diner, "I haven't seen you two in a while. How've you been?"

The couple settled across from each other at the table next to the center window.

"I was out of town," Brennan hedged.

The waitress—her name was Janine—smiled, "Well, it's nice to see you guys again. Want me to get started on some coffee?"

"I'd love some," Booth said.

Brennan agreed.

Janine nodded and walked around back.

"You know what I don't understand?"

The agent looked over at her, one hand still clasping the menu. "What, Bones?"

She set down her own menu and leaned forward, "If Kirby killed both Delaney and Harper, then why would Cabot have any motivation to kill me?"

He shrugged, "They've been in contact for a while. Maybe Cabot's trying to cover for Kirby."

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, think about it, Bones. Kirby's FBI and he probably has something on Cabot. If something were to happen and Kirby got arrested, he could flip on Cabot."

"I see." She didn't really.

"Of course, there's another possibility."

"And what's that?"

He shrugged again, "Maybe Kirby didn't kill Delaney."

"The evidence indicates that he did."

"Cabot also had weapons training, as well as experience with gathering information. He easily could've pulled a copy-cat hit."

"But why would he do that?"

"So that no one would suspect him? Because he felt like it?" Yet another shrug. "Could be anything."

Two coffees materialized on the table, cutting of her response. Both of them spouted out a "thanks" to Janine.

"Would you like anything to eat?"

Brennan shook her head, "Not hungry."

"Slice of pie," Booth said. "Apple."

Janine smiled, "Sure thing. And lucky for you, a fresh one is coming out of the oven in a few moments."

"Mm." He rubbed his hands together, "I look forward to it."

The waitress nodded and left to take care of a few other customers.

"So what's the next step from here?"

Booth took a sip from his water, seeming to consider the question. Finally, he lowered the glass and leveled a gaze at her, "We wait for the squints."

And with that sentiment ringing in the air, Booth's pie was delivered and their discussion ended, not to be broached again for several hours.

-----

Brennan paced around her hotel room, staring at an object on the table directly across from her bed.

"Why?" she asked it absently, "You didn't have to come back to me."

As expected, it remained silent.

She sighed and sat next to it, her fingers reaching forward to stroke the delicate curves of the statue.

It was old. Almost two thousand years old. Not only that, but the thing was in excellent quality. She didn't know where Hodgins had come across such a valuable artifact, but he had. And now so had she, and she was stuck with it.

Her fence had informed her that the merchandise was so unique it would be recognized on the market immediately. He had given her two choices: one, he would try to sell it and if he was caught he would finger her, or two, he would give it back. She had gone with the latter option.

Now she was wondering if the first would've been a better choice.

But thankfully, the other art piece she had stolen he had managed to sell, so that was one less problem to deal with.

She stared at it as her mind replayed the flash of remembrance that had occurred when she had met Cabot's eyes. She had seen something. But what was it?

Try as she might, the memory bits remained stubbornly out of reach.

A light tapping on her door brought her out of her mind and back to reality.

Warily, she got up from her chair and headed to the door, being careful to keep her feet from making shadows that any possible enemy could detect. After the shooting she couldn't be too careful. But a glance through the peep-hole revealed Booth in his usual leather jacket, not a psychotic with a gun.

'Well,' she thought to herself as she turned the lock, 'He's preferable to a lunatic, that's for sure.'

------

"Hey, Bones," Booth said the moment the woman in question opened the door, "I got us dinner."

She put hands on hips, "Chinese?" Although her posture and words may have suggested irritation, he could see the smile in her eyes.

"Mm-hm." He grinned at her.

She backed up a bit, smoothing stray hairs behind her ear, "Come in."

He did, setting the food on a small coffee table near a couch large enough for three.

"Any news?"

He handed her a carton and a pair of chopsticks. "Ballistics confirmed our bullet came from a sniper rifle."

"Does this bring us anywhere?"

"Not until we find a gun to compare it to."

"I see." She lifted and swallowed a noodle.

He nodded and glanced around himself, and after a moment his eyes settled on the object on her table, "Bones?" he said, setting down his carton, "What's that?"

"Uh..." For one of the first times, she looked nervous. "It's..."

He got up and looked at it, "Wait. This is Hodgins' statue."

"Yes. It is."

He looked at her incredulously, "Why do you have this here?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and seemed to consider his question. After a moment, she met his eyes again and spoke the truth, "Fence couldn't sell it."

"I see."

"Mm." She looked very uncomfortable.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Well, I would like to return it, but he's got a lot of security in his place."

"Didn't you bypass it before?"

"Yes, but it has since been tightened."

"How would you know that?" He looked at her suspiciously.

"It's a safe assumption. Someone as paranoid as him wouldn't just leave himself wide open a second time. Though admittedly he wasn't exactly wide open the first time." She looked slightly bitter about that.

"No stealing?"

She met his eyes again, "No. I wouldn't think of it."

They settled at their dinner again.

"Why?"

Her chopsticks paused before they could enter one of the small containers. "Can't rob from a friend."

"Even thieves have morales?"

"Of course, Booth. We're still human."

"Really? I never could've guessed."

She smiled, "Ha."

"I thought it was pretty funny."

"You're hysterical." Her voice was bone dry.

"I think so."

She cuffed him lightly.

Booth laughed.

"Any plans for tomorrow?" she asked.

"Well, I was thinking that—" His phone chirped. Booth threw her an apologetic look before reaching into his pocket and pulling it out, "Booth."

He listened to the caller and his breath caught; Brennan's eyes locked with his.

"When?"

"A few hours ago. Thought you'd need to know as soon as possible."

"Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Charlie," he said and clicked off.

"What?" Brennan asked.

"Looks like our suspect pool was just narrowed." He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Why?"

"They found Kirby."

"And?" She looked excited.

"He's dead."


	5. Remnants of the Past

"Here you are, Bones," Booth said as he walked into Angela's office at the Jeffersonian, "One black coffee and a scone."

"Thanks, Booth," Brennan said and took the offered package.

Angela was grinning, "Oh, wow. Coffee _and _a scone? He's a keeper, honey."

Brennan laughed as Booth blushed.

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

The two women grinned wolfishly.

"Autopsy results are in," Cam said, stepping into the room.

"Cam!" Booth said, rushing over to her, "You've got the results? What are they?"

The pathologist looked slightly taken aback. With an eyebrow arched, she said, "Homicide."

"Didn't we know that already?" Angela asked.

"Yeah." It was Cam's turn to grin, "I just like to make him squirm."

All three of them laughed.

Booth's blush was intensifying, "Can we just get on with it, please?"

"Aw, don't be that way, Booth."

"He got her coffee," Angela pointed out.

"Really?" The pathologist leveled a gaze at him, "How very kind of you."

"Wasn't it?"

"You know what?" the man in question said defensively, "You two aren't funny."

"I think they are," Brennan interjected, munching on her scone.

"Please, Cam. Just tell us," Booth begged, ignoring Brennan.

She nodded and sat in the chair across from the thief, "One shot to the frontal. Rifle. Not close-range."

"Sniper?"

"Yes."

"Like Kirby and Delaney?"

"Booth, they were killed in 1978, and we don't have the bullets."

"Yeah..." He looked sheepish. "I know."

She shook her head and smiled, "Any suspects?"

"Cabot." Brennan said.

"Simon Holt?" Angela.

She nodded and turned to Booth, "Do we have enough to search his house?"

"No. It's all circumstantial, Bones. Besides what would we be looking for?"

"Well, wouldn't that be what we would be in there for? To look?"

He shook his head, "No."

She tapped her fingers against the coffee table in front of her with one hand whilst the other directed the rest of the scone into her mouth. "I see."

"Hodgins has yet to take a look at the particulates, so he may find something," Cam said.

Brennan nodded and stood, holding her coffee, "You'll call when you find something?"

"You're not staying?" Angela asked.

"I just remembered that I had an errand to run. I won't be gone long."

"Okay. Just don't forget us, sweetie."

"I won't."

They traded quick good-byes as she walked out.

"What was that?" Booth asked moments later, chasing after her. "What errand?"

Brennan made a non-committal noise, "Probably shouldn't say."

"What? You're not—"

"Shh." She held a finger to his lips. "No talking. There's a lot of security here."

He blinked and reached up to hold her fingers, "You'll be careful? If you get caught there's nothing I can do."

"Of course, Booth, and I know. You won't have to worry."

Almost hesitantly, he kissed her hand. A shiver ran through her spine and she quickly withdrew it.

"I'll be fine."

"I heard you, Bones. Just want to make sure you know."

"I do."

"Good."

She smiled at him and walked away.

-----

The house didn't look any more impressive than it had during the day. In fact, it may have even looked less impressive. It was squat, but not looming, thin but not long, and all of it was crammed onto its tiny yard with picket fencing. Of all the places Brennan had broken into, this was by far the most banal.

But she wasn't here for valuables. She was here for something far more important.

Her earlier case of this place had revealed a cheap burglar alarm and uncomplicated locks. She did not know why a career criminal would leave himself so open, but the reason had become apparent as she had picked the lock on one of the back windows.

Someone in her line of work would not be afraid of the common criminal. The ones they feared would not be stopped by mere alarms and locks. Those people would get to them even if they were protected behind the strongest security systems known to man.

What was interesting was that Booth—who was on the opposite side of the law—feared the same thing.

The lock clicked free and she slipped through the window.

It was very dark in the house, that much was apparent immediately. This was a mixed blessing. Her movements may not be noticed, but that would mean that his movements—if he was here—would not be noticed either. But she would take what she could get.

Quieting her mind, Brennan crept into the room closest to her, then mentally cursed as she realized she had stepped into a bathroom.

Stepping out, she sidled along the wall to her right and kept going until she hit another door. Wishing she had her gun, she stepped in and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dark. It was an empty room. There were only a few globs which she took to be chairs, and a box-like thing which she took to be a table. Other than that, it did not look as if she would find anything here.

She turned and started to head out, but was stopped by the sound of shuffling feet coming from nearby. Instinctively, her hand reached into her jacket for her gun, but it wasn't there.

The light flipped on.

Simon Holt was framed in the doorway, fully dressed, his legs blocked by two duffel bags.

Contrary to how she had seen him the first time, he looked like an old man worn from a tough life rather then a fiery ex-con. His eyes were tired and sad, his arms crossed around himself. Although still composed, he was definitely different in her eyes, and her hand dropped from her jacket.

"Why didn't you shoot me?" she asked directly, not knowing what else to say.

"I never killed anyone who didn't already have it coming," Holt said grimly. "Wasn't about to start."

Her arms slid across her chest, "Weren't you the one who shot at me?"

He looked over at her before shuffling to his chair and sitting down—apparently comfortable with her presence, "No. That was Kirby."

She walked across from him and settled in the chair that was there, her memory finally returning. She had met Holt a few months ago while having lunch in the Diner. Or rather, she had bumped into him as he was leaving.

"You killed Kirby?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"The past was coming up again and problems had arisen. He wanted to drag me down with him, and I don't approve of him shooting at someone unprovoked."

"You killed him for that?"

"Not much else to do in my position. I'm an ex-con. I just want to disappear."

"Is that why you're leaving?"

He nodded.

"Kirby killed Delaney and Harper?"

"Yes. You have the journals, and I'm sure you know that Harper wanted to expose the entire operation, while Kirby and the others wanted to keep enjoying the benefits. Delaney was killed because he wanted a bigger slice of the pie and had threatened to blow the whistle on the syndicate."

"No honor among criminals?"

"You can answer that yourself."

She said nothing.

Slowly, Holt rose and looked down at her, "I'm retired, Ms. Brennan. Aside from Max and Ruth, the past and everything that it was connected to is dead and buried. Beckett is released, Kirby is dead. I'll leave you in peace, unless you have plans of stopping me?"

Brennan took to her feet as well, "I do not." It was strange, this almost old-world sort of formality and ethical system. He was the upper class of the criminal elite, and he bore almost no similarity to the people she worked with most of her days.

Without another word, Holt walked away, leaving Brennan, his house, and any remnants of his old life behind in an instant.

----

"Hey, Bones," Booth said as she opened the door to her hotel room, "Where have you been? I was worried about you."

"You were?" Brennan asked absently, wondering how he had gotten into the room without her.

"Of course I was." He got up and gave her a quick squeeze, though they lingered longer than necessary. "How'd it go?"

Brennan blinked and quickly tried to think of something. She hadn't counted on him being here. She had wanted to use this time to come up with a viable cover story. But with the realization that he was here came the knowledge that she couldn't get away with another lie. "Not good. I didn't find anything." However, she could get away with a hedge.

He pushed her to arm's length, "I thought you weren't looking for anything; you were returning something."

"What would I have to return?" Did he think _she_ had killed Kirby?

"Oh, come on, Bones. Don't make me spell it out for you. You know what I'm talking about."

She ran through what he could be referring to. She did own a gun, but it certainly wasn't a sniper rifle. Evidence? Evidence of what? Had he found something questionable? Or did it have nothing do to with Kirby?

Sudden thought: was it the piece of cake she had stolen from his fridge?

"I don't have anything to return. At least nothing I _can _return."

"Then what? Did you already give it back?"

Her mind was still on the chocolate fudge cake that had so captivated her attention that morning, "Well, I can't return it, Booth."

"Why not, Bones?"

"Well...Um...It's already gone."

"Where is it?"

"Where else would it be, Booth?" Her hands slid to her hips, "My digestive tract."

"You _ate _it?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, what else would I do with it?"

"I don't know. Whatever it is you thieves do in these situations. Sell it?"

"Why would I sell it?"

"Isn't it worth thousands of dollars?"

Her eyebrows crimped, "No. I imagine it was only about five to ten dollars."

"Then why did that guy return it to you?"

Now she was really confused, "Wait. What are we talking about, Booth?"

"Hodgins' statue." He paused. "Why? What were you talking about?"

"Uh, nothing. Nothing."

He stared at her for a moment, taking in the guilty look on her face. "Wait. Hold on a moment there, Bones. I believe I do remember missing something as of late." He leveled a finger at her, "It was _you_ who ate that cake, wasn't it? I thought I hadn't seen it this morning."

She nodded sheepishly.

"Well, was it any good?"

"Very."

"And you didn't even save me a bite, Bones?"

"Well, you were sleeping and Angela had called me out to the lab."

"You're going to have to pay for this."

"I am?" she asked playfully.

"Oh, yeah. Dinner. Tomorrow." He smiled at her, his finger once again leveled at her nose.

She kissed his hand, much like he had done earlier that day. "You're a tough customer, Agent Booth."

"As are you, Lady Temperance."

She gave him a light cuff as they settled on the couch.

"So seriously, where were you, Bones?"

"I'd rather not say."

"You didn't steal anything, did you?"

"No."

"Then why..." his voice trailed off as he seemed to consider his own question, "Wait, Bones. You didn't."

"I didn't what?"

He shook his head, "You didn't go to Hodgins', the Jeffersonian, or out stealing. There's only one other place you would go."

She waited.

"You went to see Cabot, didn't you?" Her silence was his answer. "On your own. Bones, do you have any idea how dangerous that could've been?"

"He's over sixty."

"Weren't you the one who told me not to underestimate him?"

More silence from her end of the couch.

"You're not hurt are you?" His voice sounded surprisingly tender. In moments he was beside her, looking her over. "It doesn't look like you were."

"I'm fine, Booth." She insisted quietly, liking his closeness.

"What happened, Bones?"

She briefly recounted Holt's words and his abrupt departure, only omitting that she had been wide open in the middle of his living room—because that, she knew, would definitely get Booth worked up—all the while slowly shifting closer to the agent.

"So you just let him get away?" Booth asked, his chin now resting on the crown of her head. She could feel his breath stir her hair, his warmth making her feel a little sleepy.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

She had been considering the question herself and provided the answer that she felt to be the truth, "He reminded me of my parents—still locked in the past while, at the same time, being caught in the present. Going after him would've been the equivalent of going after my father." She turned and the space between her head and his neck reduced to zero, "You understand, Booth?"

"Yeah. I understand, Bones." His hands slipped around her waist.

She wrapped her fingers around his own, "I didn't betray your confidence?"

"No."

Silence stretched between them, and although she had already asked once before, she wanted to hear it again. Just one more time to sate her fears as exhaustion tried to pull her eyelids down, "Are you going to betray me?"

He was quiet for a beat before squeezing her hand. "No."

"Nonetheless I shall be vigilant," she muttered as she snuggled into his chest, her eyes closing.

Booth chuckled as her breathing slowed and her muscles relaxed as she drifted off. "Nonetheless?" He kissed her forehead. "Didn't even know people said that anymore, Bones."

Her only response was a gentle exhale as she shifted in her sleep.

"Good night, Temperance."

--

_Author's Note_

_--_

_First off, as the final edit, I am going to say that the sequel to this story has been started and is called "The Blind Rooster's Crow." That was the reason for the abrupt end to this story._

_All of the information in this fic that deals with the Keenan family history was taken from the episodes wherever I could find it. Mostly, one can see a lot of the information here in "Woman in Limbo" and "Judas on a Pole," although I also referred to "Killer in the Concrete," "Man in the Fallout Shelter," and "Stargazer in the Puddle." Anything that could not be obtained directly from the episodes was brainstormed as logically as possible, which had the benefit of not only understanding what happened for "real" in the 1970s, but also being able to determine what could possibly have changed to trigger the events thirty years later. And, if anyone was wondering about the strong-arm crew FBI code names/real names, those came from the FBI code name list which can be seen in "Judas on a Pole."_

_I apologize for any inconsistencies or errors of any kind. At this stage in _Bones_ not every single detail of the Keenan family history has come to light, and if something does, then it's possible this fic will then become inaccurate. If this happens and I am in the middle of writing for this series, then I will work around that._

_Special thanks, once again, goes to Thnx4theGum, who pushed me to not only start the series, but continue to write it even when I was ready to give up, as well as giving me the confidence to even make this thing into something that can be continued. Everyone who read and commented also deserves a thank-you, as well as those who privately PMed me because my grouping of the chapters did not allow them to comment. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience that posed to anyone. I was just a little panicky about dealing with a story with twenty-one chapters._

_So I hope that you enjoyed the ride and that I stayed believable and relatively on character; it is my hope to see some of you guys again and that time around I promise not to mess with the chapters nearly as much. :)_

_Bone_Dry_


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